I sigh, knowing I’m rambling at this point. “Honestly, I don’t know what exactly I’m trying to say with this recording, other than to get my thoughts out.” I faintly smile. “Sort of like a diary.” I click the camera off and shut down the computer. I slip my sandals on and grab my bag, ready to head out, hoping that I can continually remember, never forget just how bad things can get, because it’s what keeps me going.
* * *
Later that day I pull up to Quinton’s apartment building. Even though I’ve been here four times, I still get extremely nervous just thinking about walking up to Quinton’s door. And when I get there, I always wonder about everything that could be going on on the other side of that cracked door. If he’s doing drugs right at this moment. If he’s okay. If he’s overdoing it. If he’s alive. I hate to think it, but he looks so bad, so scraggly, so beat up that I have to wonder if he’ll even answer the door or if one time I’ll come over here and he’ll be dead. I know it’s really messed up to go to the dark possibilities instead of the lighter ones, but when you’ve seen as much dark as I have, it’s hard not to automatically think of the bad.
Thankfully, today, when I knock on the door, I get a brief respite from the dark when Quinton answers. I feel even better when he quickly steps out, so I don’t have to go inside. He’s got a wrinkly black shirt on and cargo shorts that are frayed at the bottoms, and his hand is still bruised but not as swollen. His hair is shaggy and he’s starting to grow a stubbly goatee.
“Hey,” he says as he starts to shut the door, but then he gets this really weird look on his face, like he’s torn. Then he holds up a finger. “Can you hold on for a second?”
I nod, barely able to keep up with him as he rushes back inside, leaving the door wide open. The sunlight heats up my back as I stare inside the stuffy apartment, the air laced with smoke coming from a lit cigarette on an ashtray on the coffee table. Delilah’s passed out on the sofa in the living room, her arm draped over her stomach as she sleeps on her back. I haven’t talked to her yet and I’m sort of glad because I have a feeling that conversation isn’t going to go very well. Not just because she’s been a bitch to me on the phone, but because if she does decide to be nice to me, I know I could possibly be swept up in being her friend. And being her friend means getting high. And I’m still not sure how I’d respond if I were actually offered something.
As I’m watching the smoke snake around the room, Dylan unexpectedly strides out of the hallway and over to the coffee table. He looks like a skeleton, but they all do really: bony arms, bald head, his cheekbones shaded, bags under his eyes. He also seems distracted, oblivious to me as he hunts the room for something.
At first, anyway.
But as I instinctively take a step back, his eyes elevate to me. I’ve never been a fan of him. He was too intense and treated Delilah like shit. Plus, he always seemed angry all the time, no matter what was going on.
He looks calm now, though, which might be more frightening than when he’s angry. “What are you doing here?” he asks as he picks up a tiny bag off the table.
“Waiting for Quinton,” I answer quickly, stepping back until my back brushes the railing.
He winds around the coffee table toward me. “No, I mean what the f**k are you doing here in Vegas?” He halts at the doorway, staying in the shadows, clutching the bag in his hand. “Weren’t you like going to college or something?”
“Yeah, but it’s summer break,” I explain nervously. “So I decided to come down here for a while.”
“To see Quinton?” he asks, giving me a look like he thinks I’m a moron. “Interesting.”
I nod, not saying anything, hoping he’ll leave, but all he does is stand there and stare at me. It’s really starting to creep me out when Delilah sits up on the sofa. She says something, but her speech is so slurred I can’t understand her. Then she stumbles over to Dylan, her red hair tangled around her pale, thin face, her cheekbones hollowed out. She’s wearing a T-shirt that barely covers her thighs and, like Tristan, she has a few sores on her arms. She also has a massive bruise on her cheek, like she’s recently been in a fight. That’s when I notice Dylan’s knuckles are covered in scabs like he scraped the skin on something. Delilah’s face, maybe. I have to wonder.
“Baby…” She trails off as Dylan turns around and gives her a gentle shove toward the sofa.
“Go lie down,” he calls over his shoulder in an icy tone.
She keeps herself from falling by grasping the back of a chair. “I…need…” She blinks around the room and despite everything we’ve been through, all the crappy moments we shared, my heart twists inside my chest.
“What’s she on?” I ask, inching forward, preparing to help her.
Dylan turns around and slams a hand on each side of the doorframe, blocking my way in. “That’s none of your damn business.”
I stand on my tiptoes and glance over his shoulder at Delilah. “Delilah, are you okay?”
She stumbles over a glass pipe on the floor as she makes the rest of the short walk back to the sofa and then flops down on her back. “I’m fine…go…k…” She waves her hand at me, shooing me away.
“You don’t look fine,” I say, wondering what it would take to get Dylan out of my way.
Dylan leans to the side, shielding her completely from my view. “She said she was fine. Now back off,” he growls in a low voice.
I tip my chin up and meet his sullen eyes. I think about saying something like “Fuck off,” which is completely out of character for me, but at the same time being here isn’t really me either.
I never manage to find my voice, though, and instead Dylan just ends up smirking at me for a painfully long minute. When I see Quinton emerge from the hallway, I exhale deafeningly and Dylan seems pleased about the fact that he was making me nervous.
Quinton glances at Delilah, who’s lying on the sofa with her eyes shut, as he makes his way across the room. He doesn’t say anything as he pushes Dylan aside and squeezes between him and the doorway. Dylan glowers at him and Quinton seems edgy, even placing his arm around my back and hurriedly guiding me away from the door. “You ready?” he asks.
“Yeah…” I peek over my shoulder at Dylan, who’s watching us walk away, lighting up a cigarette. It creeps me out even more and I scoot closer to Quinton, feeling a little safer being near him.